


The Demons Inside (Ch13)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, AO3 Writer's Group: What it means to you? Challenge, AO3 Writers Facebook Group Monthly Challenge, Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Confrontations, Edging, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Friendship, I hope the tags cover all triggers, I'll add tags as I post the chapters not to spoil, It will be explicit later, John has a big magnificent majestic cock, Johnlock Roulette, Knifeplay, M/M, Past Abuse, Past PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Reunion, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sub Drop, Submission, Switching, Top John Watson, Topping from the Bottom, Understanding, i suck at tags sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-16 00:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17539598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: John visits Sherlock at Baker Street after the bonfire incident. When Mary is not next to John, he finally lets himself confront Sherlock about how much Sherlock's fake death hurt him. They both end up wanting to resolve their issues and communicate what has been left unsaid for so long.Takes place during the events of The Empty Hearse - S3 E1For January AO3 FB Challenge - my theme is "Understanding"





	1. Confrontation

**Author's Note:**

> Part 13 of "deleted scenes" style fic [The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1158497)  
> All parts can be read as stand-alone stories but read better together as one story. The Memoirs fit in between or during episodes of the Sherlock TV show. Fix-it series where the show stays the same.

 

 

The moment John entered 221B the same way that he always had, without knocking, as if he still lived there, Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. 

He had to get rid of his parents as soon as possible in order not to give them a chance to embarrass him in front of John.

John was in the sitting room. Of his own volition. Images of the previous day when Mary had come running with information that John had been in danger came to Sherlock’s mind. His suspicions about her be damned, she’d proven that she cared for John. She’d immediately reacted accordingly by coming to the best person who could help her. Him. And he had done just that. 

Looking at John standing in front of him, Sherlock saw in his mind’s eye his friend’s charred face, his eyes rolling back as Sherlock had pulled him out of the bonfire just the day before. The memory of John being in danger caused him physical pain in his chest and a flashback to the time he had spent in a damp basement in Serbia. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and schooled his expression. 

After their time spent apart, Sherlock finally came to realise how much John meant to him, but in the light of the nearly-tragic event, he confirmed his willingness to kill and die for John Watson if need be. But most importantly, he would let him be happy with a woman, if that was what he chose to do. 

-

After Sherlock had worked in tandem with Mary to save him from the bonfire, John had to admit to himself that his anger at Sherlock’s disappearance and lying about it had dwindled substantially. John was glad that, at least this time, he managed to get to the flat without being kidnapped. That was a big improvement over the last time.

“Did they know too?” John asked after Sherlock shooed his, surprisingly ordinary-looking, parents out the door. “Hmm?” He looked at Sherlock who desperately tried to avoid his gaze, shuffling something on the desk. How such ordinary people could raise such an extraordinary man was beyond his understanding, John thought. “That you’ve spent the last two years playing hide and seek?”

“Maybe,” came the meek response.

“Ah, so that’s why they weren’t at the funeral!” John couldn’t keep the exasperation from either his voice or from his whole demeanour. 

“Sorry, sorry again.” Sherlock’s apology was sincere despite the theatrical execution with flailing hands and raised voice. “Sorry,” Sherlock repeated and this time John’s heart ceased for a second. In that one word he heard more pain and regret than he’d ever heard coming from his friend.

-

Sherlock actually did feel like a complete and utter shit. He’d no idea his absence would hurt John so greatly. 

Neither had he anticipated the extent of the sacrifice necessary on his own part to accomplish his mission. He had been certain it would be all worth it. Worth his pain, his loneliness, and the acquisition of the new demons taking space inside his head.  

His hope dwindled after John rejected him upon his coming back. “Sorry,” he said again, truly meaning it. He hoped John could feel what he tried to convey with saying just this single word. He hoped John would accept the apology or acknowledge it at least, but instead the only thing he got in response was a heavy sigh. He had fucked up. He had fucked up badly. 

He had to try and make John smile at him again, like he used to. A joke. A joke could save the situation. John liked those.

“So you’ve shaved it off, then?” The dead animal under John’s nose hadn’t suited the John Watson he knew and missed.

“Yeah. Wasn’t working for me.”

“I’m glad.”

“You didn’t like it?” John asked the question he knew the answer to before. It made Sherlock wonder if he had been the reason for the facial hair change.

“No, I prefer my doctors clean-shaven,” Sherlock smiled to himself, quite proud of the innuendo. 

“It’s not a sentence you hear every day.” John sat on his chair and lay his gloves on the coffee table as if he had just come back from the shops and was going to stay. Sherlock had to swallow hard at the sight of John in his chair in 221B. It was right. He belonged there, in the chair, in the flat, with him. He realised how much he missed those little things. Seemingly meaningless little things. 

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked to break the sudden silence.

“Yeah, not bad. Bit smoked.” 

“Right.” Jokes. John was making jokes. Maybe there was a chance to make up for the initial disastrous reunion after all. 

-

It felt good, oddly familiar even after two years, to sit in his old chair at 221B knowing that Sherlock was back for good. 

A pang in his chest told him that he should move back and live at Baker Street too. But time couldn’t be turned back. Sherlock had hurt him too much and he had Mary now. He had responsibilities other than running around with Sherlock at odd times of day or night. There had been so much left unsaid between them then, and now there was even more. John had to face the issue he had at hand with soldierly resolve, or so he kept convincing himself as the words refused to leave his mouth. On his way to Baker Street, he’d thought of many ways his conversation with Sherlock could go. In all of them, he had to at least make Sherlock realise how much damage he’d done to John’s heart. 

“Sherlock,” John swallowed before lifting his gaze, “have you really any idea what you’ve done?” his voice sounded brittle.

“I saved you from the fire...” Sherlock’s voice was hesitant as if he was unsure of John’s meaning.

“I mean when you left,” the last word dripped with venom mixed with hurt, “Because,” he let out a short nervous chuckle, “you didn’t die, you... left.”  _You left me._

“John...” Sherlock’s voice was neutral, placating and that riled John up even more.

John breathed through his nose, his jaw set, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. His eyes stung. He had to make a choice which emotion to let out and which to hide deeper inside. His fuse was usually a lot longer and Sherlock hadn't done anything specific at this moment for him to be so riled up. But John couldn’t explain his emotional state when he was finally alone with Sherlock. In the battle of emotions, anger won. John was remembering all too clearly how he had been hurting during that time. How he considered the worst. How ending his life had made the most sense back then. Thankfully, Mary couldn’t see him now and see how that period in his life remained a dark cloud over his head despite her presence.

“Of course you have no idea...” John shook his head and let his voice bellow. “You egocentric cock!”

-

Sherlock hoped John wouldn't hit him again. Once the idea occurred, Sherlock thought that maybe he could turn John’s anger to his advantage.

“It killed me, Sherlock. You killed me right there on that roof,” his former flatmate managed to say more calmly through half-gritted teeth as he stood up and faced him.

“Did you think for even a second that I died there too?” Sherlock’s own frustration came out in his spoken words that came out far louder than he intended.  _I would die if it meant I could protect you. I had to die for the public to believe it, to destroy the network_ _._ _To make sure you were safe. Moriarty’s death-wish made it a lot more difficult than I anticipated but it was still doable._

“You faked it,” John’s voice was hard as he visibly tried to leash his temper; his left fist clenching and unclenching at his side.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. He threatened you. Twice.” There was no need to clarify who Sherlock was talking about as he tried to modulate his voice to no avail. “And as long as his syndicate was still out there, you weren’t safe.”

“Oh so I was your damsel-” John tried to interrupt but Sherlock was like a train on his way to a station; there was no force that could stop him now.

“Yes! You had to believe I was dead. If even you believed that, then the world would as well and that gave me the upper hand.”  _So I could annihilate all of them. Because no one threatens John Watson. No one threatens...MY John._ He couldn’t say it out loud but he hoped John could someday fully forgive him. He had moved on after all. He was happy, about to get married. And Sherlock was ready now to stand there next to him, always. 

Sherlock couldn’t have contacted John to tell him that he hadn't died. John might have told someone inadvertently, hinted it on his blog, and then Sherlock’s whole plan of laying Moriarty’s minions in the grave would be ruined. John would have remained in danger, and Sherlock couldn’t allow that. Not ever again. He promised himself that he would keep John in trouble but out of mortal danger no matter the cost to himself, his health or sanity. 

“But Mycroft knew! Molly for God’s sakes! And 25 people from your network! I asked them, you know, I walked around like a lunatic and asked homeless people about the whereabouts of the DEAD Sherlock Holmes!” John flailed his arms, then balled them into fists at his sides again.

“You could have... No, you would have been killed, John.” Sherlock strove for calmness so as not to rile his friend up even more. It was an arduous effort.

“But it would have been my choice! You took that away from me. If I had chosen to die next to you, I would have done it in a blink of an eye. And it would have been MY choice.”

 _And that is exactly_ _why_ _I_ _hadn’t_ _told you the plan_ , Sherlock thought. 

“I already said, I’m sorry. But if I had to choose now, I’d do the same.”

“You would leave again. Leave me without a call or a text...just...disappear...” John’s voice lost the volume but the quiet manner in which he uttered the last words was even worse. “Did you think I’d wait for you? Well, surprise, but I’m not your fucking dog.” He took a breath before he whispered. “I’m your friend.” 

John’s voice broke a little with the last word and Sherlock felt it like a punch to the gut. The clear memory of the beautiful sight of John on his knees with Sherlock’s belt around his throat, flashed through Sherlock’s mind. “Though you heel beautifully, if memory serves me well.” 

Sherlock realized that what he had said might have been a tad inappropriate when a fist connected with his jaw. He didn’t even lift his hands to cover his face when another blow landed until everything went black. 

He woke up sitting on the couch with John straddling him and gently slapping his face. 

“You scared me,” John’s accusatory tone made his head swim. This time the slap was harder as John’s face loomed right above his own. 

“Would you stop,” Sherlock grabbed the doctor’s hand mid-flight by the wrist and brought it to his lips to kiss the inside of it. John’s expression softened. Sherlock didn’t know how else to apologize or how to make recompense for what he did to John, but at least he could defuse him now.

He took John’s other hand and pulled them behind his doctor’s back. John’s nostrils flared but this time not with anger as his breathing picked up pace.

“Sherlock...” he closed his eyes shaking his head, the warning was clear in his tone. “you can’t just,-”

His words drowned in the well of Sherlock’s kiss on his lips. He opened to it, meeting Sherlock stroke for stroke in a hungry and angry battle of tongues. “I’m still mad,” John gasped in the second he came up for breath.

“I know,” Sherlock released John’s hands to grab his arse and pull his hips closer.

“I have a girlfriend, you know...” John started to get off Sherlock but was firmly kept in place by a set of strong arms. 

“Yet here you are, being so deliciously bad,”

“You cock,” John exclaimed before taking a hold of Sherlock’s curls in both fists and sealing their mouths together again.

 _I’ve missed you too_ , Sherlock wanted to say.  _There hasn’t been a day, nay an hour, during those two years that I haven’t thought of you. Of us running on_ _the rooftops of_ _London together, of us eating breakfast together, of us waking up together in bed after a night of sweaty pleasures. Not a single day without you, John, in the very front of my mind._  He couldn't let those words out of his throat, but hoped that John could feel the weight of them in the kiss, in the way Sherlock held him as if he wanted to keep him there, straddling him, till the end of his days. 

“You need to go back to your girlfriend then,” Sherlock smirked through kiss-swollen lips when they broke apart.

“It’s not about that.” John was trying to even his breathing. “We just can’t come back to what we had before. Not after the two-year stunt you pulled.”

“Is that the only reason?” Sherlock’s brows lifted in surprise. 

“Yes, it is,” John said without hesitation.

“What about your fiancé?”

“She’s not my fiancé. Not yet. But...”

“Don’t you want to marry her?” Sherlock did not bother to hide the hopeful note in his voice.

“Of course I want to marry her,” the lie came out of John’s mouth so effortlessly, Sherlock was certain he must almost believe it himself. “Even if she’s not wearing my ring, I made a promise to her, a commitment. I will not break it.” 

Before the fall, Sherlock wouldn’t have known what that feeling was in his heart but he had had too much time to analyse his feelings when it came to John Watson, and he knew that this was heartbreak.

“What would she say, if she knew you were here with me?”

John’s face turned red and this time not from anger.

“Oh I see,” Sherlock said knowingly.

“No, you don’t see.”

“She sent you here.”

 


	2. Submission

 

John climbed off Sherlock and this time he wasn’t stopped. He stood in front of the sofa while Sherlock sat up straighter, looking at him with those gorgeous eyes full of longing, but he said nothing more.

John’s jaw was set and he took several breaths through his nose before he responded to what had been a statement rather than a question. 

“She told me to mend my friendship with you in any way I please. See, she cares about me. And she told me that extends to you by default and that we have to fix our relationship,” John shook his head and let in hang. “She said...” he paused, swallowing. “She told me it’s not cheating if … but I can’t, Sherlock. I...” he took a deep breath through his mouth, the air trembling on the exhale, his shoulders slumping. “It hurts too much,” he turned towards the door. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” John managed to put his hand on the handle when he heard his name spoken behind him. 

“John...” Sherlock’s voice was guttural, the name conveying the authoritative demeanour John had missed for so long. His whole body obeyed and he stopped in his tracks, frozen, but he didn’t turn. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. “John,” when his name reached his ears again, it sounded different. The single syllable came out as a plea this time and John’s resolve broke. He turned towards Sherlock who, to John’s utter shock, had changed his position. 

Sherlock was on his knees in the middle of the room, in the space where the rug ended and the wooden floor was exposed. His shirt was open and it slid from one arm, exposing the pale flesh in a submissive pose. Sherlock’s hands were to the sides and he was unmoving. John wanted to run to his friend, pick him up and hug him, give him his warmth, touch his own chest to the one exposed before him. But he didn’t. He was still too angry for that. In three long strides, John approached Sherlock and leaned in to lift his friend’s chin with his index finger. 

Sherlock’s wide eyes were pleading, the expression a stark contrast to the one of the detective’s he used to know.

John’s chest constricted. He had never seen Sherlock so vulnerable, so open. Even before his faked death, Sherlock had been always slightly distant, commanding, holding himself back at least a little. Not now. Sherlock was exposed, his feelings and heart all showed on his face. 

John’s cock twitched seeing his best friend look up at him that way. It had never been a common occurrence and John had enjoyed it immensely. Sherlock looked gloriously beautiful. He remained unmoving, waiting for John’s answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked. John could judge by the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers that he wasn’t immune to this moment either. 

The air in the room became thicker, hotter, making it harder to breathe in and out. It seemed like the furniture slowly disappeared from around them until only two figures remained in the middle of 221B sitting room.

John’s body moved as if of its own volition and he leaned in to place a kiss on Sherlock’s exposed shoulder. When he straightened up and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, he knew he was lost. Swallowed by the pools of colour as if he was diving into a lake, his head going under. But instead of gasping for air, he was going down and breathing, spreading his arms, living, better than he ever had before.  

John could never stay angry at Sherlock for long, but that didn’t mean the remnants of the anger weren’t still boiling under John’s skin.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John felt exhilaration at Sherlock’s submissive pose but it was new to him and he wasn’t sure if this was what Sherlock wanted or it was just for a show of apology.

“I want you to use me, John.” The low, sultry voice saying those words wrapped around John like a silk ribbon and squeezed his stomach in a hug of lust. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” John choked out through the hunger constricting his throat. 

“I want you to take me anyway you want. I want you to hurt me if you wish. No, I want you to hurt me, period. I want you to accept me back into your bed, no matter the conditions.” At that, Sherlock let the shirt slide to the floor in a soft swish, exposing the beautiful body, now covered with an array of scars.

John’s gasp was quiet, swallowed quickly to unsuccessfully mask the shock and horror in his expression.

“Oh God, what happened to you?” John switched to doctor mode in a split second and was promptly kneeling in front of Sherlock, his hands on his friend’s shoulders, his eyes roaming over his chest. “No, no, no” John’s head shook in disbelief as his fingertips hovered over the scars on Sherlock’s ribs, not making contact with the skin. “Jesus, Sherlock...” a knife wound, and another one. Several of them in fact. John could recognize cigarette burns as well but his fingers stopped above the largest one on the left side of his abdomen.

“Hot poker,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly but John was not fooled by his cold statement. These were marks of torture.

“What the hell happened to you? Why didn’t you tell me?” John’s tone was accusatory but sympathetic. 

“We haven’t really sat to chat. Or rather we have but your insistence on hitting me kept interrupting the conversation.”

“I’m...I’m...” John couldn’t say that he was sorry for hitting Sherlock, even though he was. He had been too hurt not to react the way he had once he had found out that Sherlock had lied to him and had maintained the horrible lie for two years. The anger he had felt then was pushed to the back of his mind now as his fingertips traced a vicious line of scars leading towards Sherlock’s back. “Oh my God, oh God,” John heard his whispered voice breaking but he paid that no mind, “Sherlock, these are barely healed... your back...” John bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling as he thought of their reunion at the restaurant. He felt as if someone punched all the air out of him. His eyes stung.

-

“It’s all fine now, John. Stop fussing.” Sherlock went for nonchalance but faltered as he heard John’s breath hitch behind him. He let the quiet of the room resolve the situation at hand. He didn’t turn but heard John sniffle, then shuffle around behind his back. John took his jacket and cardigan off.

The softest of kisses landed between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and he let his eyes flutter closed, remembering easier times. The two of them at home, John’s kisses in the same place but devoid of the emotional baggage overwhelming both of them now. 

Sherlock had not been aware that his presumed death would hurt John so much. He wouldn’t change what he had done, even if he could, because that would mean John would have died then. He couldn’t have contacted John during his absence either in case he was traced. That would have jeopardized Sherlock’s whole operation and put John in danger again. But he could do something now, try to fix what he had broken. ‘Try’ being the key word. The ultimate decision had to belong to John. He had to give his doctor more space to decide. Given what John had told him moments before, this was the best course of action to be taking now. 

-

John wanted to kiss each and every scar on Sherlock’s body and he made a pledge to himself that he would do it tonight. The raised lines of barely healed tissue created a map of the dark places Sherlock had gone to during his absence. He would ask him about those long months they lost, but not now. Now was the time to show Sherlock how much he had missed him.

Salt from John’s tears dried his own lips and he licked them before tracing a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses on the side of Sherlock’s neck. He shuffled closer on his knees, his clothed body flush against Sherlock’s naked back. His arms wrapped around the muscled torso, which felt so different, so foreign in its new shape, yet so familiar. The embrace was like coming back home after a long absence; everything was the same but the furniture was in different places and the drapes were different. But it was still home. John inhaled Sherlock’s essence behind his ear, the soft curls tickling his face. 

Sherlock’s hands finally lifted from his sides and rested on John’s own. They knelt together for hours, days, years... for two minutes before Sherlock’s hands slid off John’s and he took a deep breath, his chest expanding under John’s hold.

“John...”

“Mmm?” John murmured into Sherlock’s neck in response. He wanted to say so much but there were no words to describe the battle between all the feelings he felt for his friend. When more words didn’t come from the man in front of him, John shuffled around on his knees to face Sherlock.

The taller man’s head was down, the dark-brown locks concealing the look on his face but John could tell his eyes were closed.  _What was going through that genius head of his_ _?_ , he wondered. 

John reached to cup Sherlock’s face in his palms, the face that had appeared in his dreams for two years and still did now. At times he saw the face laughing, releasing the most joyous sound he had ever heard, but sometimes it was laying on the pavement covered in blood. 

“Sherlock?”

The long lashes floating on Sherlock’s cheeks lifted and two shining orbs of emotion looked straight into John’s soul. They said so much when the full lips below remained shut. 

Sherlock locked his arms behind his back, holding himself by the forearms, as far towards the elbows as he could reach. The pose made his chest push forward, emphasising the pectorals and so much more muscle than John remembered Sherlock having two years prior. John’s eyes roamed over the expanse of pale skin.

“Tie me up.”

John’s breath hitched at the words leaving Sherlock’s mouth. He shook his head. 

“Do it.”

“No.”

“I know you’ve always wanted to.”

“How could you possibly...?” John sighed shaking his head in disbelief before looking into Sherlock's eyes for any indication that he was pulling his leg. “You’ve never let me do this, Sherlock, any of it,” John’s voice sounded worried but laced with desire nonetheless. “What changed?”

-

“I thought nothing had and nothing would. I thought everything would remain the same once I came back,” Sherlock let his head fall. “I was grossly mistaken.” He couldn’t look John in the eyes.

“What’s this really about?” John would not this one go, his tone of voice said as much.

“I’m giving you a choice.” Sherlock made sure to hold John’s gaze to see in his eyes when he’d understand. “That day, at Bart’s I sent you away. I couldn’t stand for you to risk yourself in whatever unpredictable situation Moriarty was about to drag us into. You just told me that you wish you had a choice then.” he lifted his chin. “Now you have one.” He paused and took a slow, deep breath. “I can’t take back what had happened but I can give you a choice now. 

Take me... or leave me.” 

 _Please don’t leave me, John._  The thought thankfully didn’t leave his mouth as he held himself by the forearms behind his back and steadied his breathing, waiting for John to make a decision. 

John stared at him. Watching him stand and think was a study in emotion, a study in body language and breathing patterns. Finally, John clicked his heels together straightening his whole posture, thrust his chin up and spoke.

“What’s your safeword?” 


	3. Reconciliation

 

“What’s your safeword?” John asked in lieu of accepting the challenge as he started rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Vatican Cameos,” Sherlock replied in a steady voice. They didn’t laugh as they did the first time John suggested this particular safeword. They weren’t the same men now and they weren’t operating on the same terms either. It would take some time for them to reclaim the light and sweet bedroom dynamic they had before Sherlock’s fall.

“Oh God Sherlock, you mean it...” John adjusted himself in his trousers. 

Suddenly, he felt differently than he ever had with Sherlock in the bedroom before. Sherlock willingly yielded power and John had to make sure neither of them would regret it, before he marched to the kitchen and brought back a hemp rope. It had been in the third drawer from the top, just as he remembered from when he used to live at Baker Street. Sherlock kept many seemingly unnecessary items around the house and this was one of them. It would be very useful today.

John walked around Sherlock unwinding the rope. Sherlock was following his movements with his gaze but otherwise unmoving. John folded the rope in half.

“Look up” John commanded standing behind Sherlock. The detective lifted his gaze upward as far as he could, exposing the long porcelain neck that begged to be kissed to be caressed, to be...bound. John looked down into Sherlock’s eyes and saw the need in them, the need for the two best friends, lovers, almost something more, to be together again. 

John made sure Sherlock saw the rope before he slid it around the detective’s throat and made a knot at the nape of his neck. John continued to tie Sherlock’s arms together, modifying the dragon sleeve with the knots he knew from the army to successfully bind Sherlock’s arms behind his back in a gorgeous array of knots, making sure the one on his neck wouldn’t tighten. Throughout the tying process, Sherlock was kneeling unmoving, silent. John could only hear his breathing pick up its pace when his arms were bound tight enough so that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to move them at all. 

John leaned over to trace a finger along the rope on Sherlock’s neck before he placed a kiss right above it, on his sharp jawline. 

“Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes.” came the quick and breathy reply. 

John took a step back from the detective and looked at his bound body, ready to pleasure and be pleasured right there on the floor. The rope created a pattern on Sherlock’s back and chest. It will leave imprint marks that John will kiss until they disappear after he unties his detective.

“You’re gorgeous, Sherlock. Oh God, you’re so perfect, I can’t look at you and not want to fuck you.” John stooped to take Sherlock’s face into his palms and link their mouths together. Sherlock opened into the kiss and their tongues explored the familiar yet almost forgotten. Both men wanted to reacquaint themselves with the depths of feeling and need that had remained shoved into a box for fear of recurring hurt and loss. Still locked in the kiss, John unbuttoned his trousers freeing his weeping with precome cock, and gave it a stroke before he broke away from Sherlock. 

John straightened and looked down at his detective, at his lips that opened in silent invitation, still red from the ferocious kiss. Sherlock’s upward gaze created an illusion of his eyes being even bigger, wider, even more beautiful, the galaxies in them gleaming in the light of the lamp. Holding his cock by the base, John approached Sherlock and obliged his opened mouth. Immediately a groan bubbled up from deep in John’s chest as Sherlock sucked on the head, licking the precome with a swirl of his talented tongue. 

“Oh God yes.” John started moving further inside Sherlock’s mouth as he uttered the exact same words as he had on their first day at Baker Street; the day Sherlock asked him to assist him in solving their first case together, the beginning of their adventures. Here they were now, as if closing the loop, back on Baker Street. So much has changed, yet so little. John still wanted Sherlock, even more than that first day, but this time he wasn’t hesitant, he wasn’t afraid to take what he had wanted for so long, what he’d thought he would never have again. 

Sherlock. 

John twisted his hand into the detective’s black curls, holding them tightly at the nape as he kept thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth, the tip of his cock hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat until his eyes began to water.

“Do you want me to stop?” John asked but his friend gave a small shake of his head not to lose the grip with his mouth. Nevertheless, John slid his cock out with an audible pop and went to his medical kit in the kitchen. He brought back a Squash ball and placed it in Sherlock’s palm behind his back. “When you’ve had enough, drop the ball and I’ll know you want me to stop.”

“I won’t,” replied Sherlock with resolve in his voice.

-

Sherlock wouldn’t tap out no matter what John did to him that night. He was certain of that. Even though he trusted John, his chest burned with panic that sought acknowledgement as his head swam with flashbacks of the torture he endured in Serbia. He had been shackled then. Helpless. That had felt not dissimilar to how he felt now. But now he trusted his captor and desperately wanted to imprint new sensations and new emotions over the pain and torture he had suffered for weeks before his escape.  

Maybe if John used his military and medical skill on him enough, he could obliterate the bad memories completely and replace them with new ones. Ones where it’s John binding him and beating him, but for pleasure and sex; for pain that turns into ecstasy rather than torture. He wanted John to crawl under his skin and stay there. That way, no matter what happened to Sherlock later in life, he would always carry with him the moments when John took his nightmares away and replaced them with memories of himself. 

Sherlock squeezed the ball in his palm and felt the tight ropes biting into the skin of his forearms. He relished the pain, welcomed it and craved more. 

John’s cock was back in his mouth just before he had to ask for it. Sherlock didn’t know how to better express to John how much he’d missed him, how much suffering and loneliness the last two years brought for him. The abundance, whole dictionaries of words he knew, could not convey his feelings. It was better therefore, not to say a word rather than to say the wrong thing again. 

Sherlock relaxed his throat and looked up at John accepting the gift he was being given without a gag reflex. John’s groans became more guttural, his thigh muscles strained. He was close.

All of a sudden, he pulled out of Sherlock’s mouth and breathed deeply holding his cock in a tight grip. Sherlock had to leash his own near-release at the sight of John edging so beautifully. The sound of John’s breathing through gritted teeth coupled with the look of near ecstasy on his face made Sherlock’s arousal spike. 

He wanted John to spill in his mouth, on his chest, on his face. He wanted to feel the warmth of his come on him.

“Please John...” 

“Are you begging?” John hissed through the strain.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice broke and he took a slow deep breath, and thrusting his chin up tried again, “I’m begging you John. I’m on my knees and begging you to forgive me and to let me back into your life. I want you to,-”

“No talking or I’ll have to gag you,” John interrupted him and Sherlock closed his mouth in an instant. He swallowed audibly but the heat in his body told him that John’s threat would be welcomed if executed. He almost said something, anything just to see if John would follow on the threat but he didn’t want to risk John leaving.

Sherlock had imagined John in all his wildest dreams and memories, but the reality before his eyes was incomparable. Sherlock was committing it to memory, storing all the information in his mind palace. How the muscles on John’s forearms strained when he gripped his imposing cock, the arch of his neck as his head was thrown backwards, his lips slightly parted to let out a hiss. This was an image he would recall later tonight and every subsequent night he would be lying in his bed alone, alone in the flat, alone in his life. This was the image that would be front and centre in his mind when he would be gripping his cock in the dark, whispering John’s name over and over again until he spilled his seed on himself. 

Alone.


	4. Acceptance

 

John was getting into the dynamic reversal more by each minute. He could get used to Sherlock listening to what he said and obeying him right away. He missed the times when he could just let go and let Sherlock make decisions in bed but the idea of switching between the two options made him ecstatic. 

After collecting himself from his near-orgasm, John marched behind Sherlock.  

“Stand up,” he ordered as he gripped the rope tied behind the detective’s back and helped him to his feet. Sherlock wobbled a little which was exceptionally shocking as his grace usually defied logic. The tightly bound rope around his chest and his arms firmly secured in the back, prevented him from using his arms to balance himself.  

When John walked around Sherlock to look at his friend’s face, he saw Sherlock’s chin up, eyes narrowed and sparkling with a need so intense that John knew he wouldn’t leave until he indulged this statuesque god with whatever it was that he needed so badly.   

John knelt on one knee in front of Sherlock and untied his shoelaces. With one hand on Sherlock’s right thigh, he lifted his partner’s left foot to slide the shoe off, then the sock. He did the same with the other perfectly polished shoe and set them aside, socks inside. 

He rose from his position with his hands sliding along the long legs of the world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock’s intense gaze followed his movements from under hooded eyelids. John looked into the almond-shaped eyes, so unique in all their aspects; their colouring, absolutely, but most importantly what hid behind them. 

John reached to unbuckle Sherlock’s belt, then slowly undid his fly and let the trousers pool around the detective’s ankles, hearing the heavy thud of the belt’s buckle on the floor. He pulled the boxers down to join the trousers and watched Sherlock step out of the bundle. 

Taking a step back, John marvelled at the unearthly beauty of the man in front of him. His heart hurt seeing the scars scattered on Sherlock’s body but impossibly, they made him look even more beautiful, more raw. The muscles that were honed to perfection during Sherlock’s absence bulged in his arms, chest and abdomen, the rope wrapped around them making Sherlock look like a gladiator ready to please his master.  

John became aware of the indecent sounds he made only when he saw Sherlock’s nostrils flare in reaction as he breathed in, expanding his chest, making the rope dig into his skin. 

It was then, standing in the middle of the sitting room of the flat that held so many memories, looking at Sherlock bound and naked, that it hit John. Sherlock was truly back. He was back in London, back at 221B, back in John’s his life. That was the moment when he realised that he could not, would not let him leave again.  

With one step forward, John neared the magnificent man and with one finger, he traced the line of the rope in front, then the scar under Sherlock’s ribs and around to his back and his buttocks as he walked around letting his eyes roam unashamedly.  

“Oh God, Sherlock, I... I wish I had the words to tell you what you do to me. What looking at you like this does to me...” John’s finger traced a line where Sherlock’s perfectly round arsecheek met his thigh, then along the crease and onto the other cheek. “Perfection,” he whispered.  

After a glance around the room, John’s gaze landed on the coffee table in front of the sofa which was so littered with maps that the table top was invisible. With a loud screech of wood on wood, he moved the table to block the doorway and allow easy access to the sofa at the same time. 

John gripped the knots of rope at the detective’s back and turned him to face the sofa.  

“Kneel for me,” his voice was hoarse and commanding but also soft, laced with the emotions swirling inside him. Wordlessly, Sherlock obeyed and John positioned him so that his torso rested on the scattered cushions on the sofa. He put one of them under Sherlock’s cheek for him to rest his head on.  

Sherlock’s gorgeous round arse was on display and John couldn’t help himself and slapped it hard enough for the sound to echo through the room. 

The detective tensed involuntarily but didn’t make a sound. John massaged the reddening handprint on the arsecheek and leaned in to lick Sherlock’s earlobe.  

“Was that okay?” John was not surprised at his guttural tone. He had always been aware what proximity to naked Sherlock did to him. 

Sherlock nodded, his eyes focused on John. 

“Do you want more?” 

Sherlock nodded again, arching a little and John had to adjust himself at the sight. The next slap was on the other cheek. John massaged the spot then moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s balls fondly before he moved to his cock with the same gentleness. Sherlock’s firm erection was leaking precome already. John hadn’t anticipated his detective would like spanking so much. That made two of them. 

“God, how I’ve missed you,” John breathed, surprised at how easily the confession left his mouth. “I’ve missed you every horrible day for two years and I just can’t go back to the way it was between us before that. Not yet at least.” 

Sherlock blinked looking at John with an open expression, showing that he was listening, nodding slightly.  

“You can speak,” John said as he realized why Sherlock was still silent. He told him to. John felt a rush of pride at the restraint Sherlock showcased. 

“I’m sorry. I accept your conditions. I’ll accept any conditions,” Sherlock’s cheek was still on the pillow as he spoke and John’s fingers glided through the black curls that fell on his friend’s forehead. 

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it. Not until you know what I’ll ask of you.” John leaned to place a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Although I hope you meant it because I really want to fuck you,” he searched Sherlock’s face for shock, disapproval or a protest but none came. “Would you really, finally, let me fuck you, Sherlock?” 

“Yes.” came the quick, sure reply. 

“Would you...” John had to clear his throat, disbelief clear in his tone, “would you want me to?” John asked placing his hand on Sherlock’s hip. 

“Yes,” came a breathy response. 

“Jesus... it’s insane how much I want you, Sherlock. But I can’t just forgive and forget, you know,” the strangled sound of his voice revealed the battle he still fought inside. “Even if...I... if you...” 

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. 

“Then punish me.” 

“What?” John’s astonishment was clear in his question. 

“Punish me for what I did to you,” The words came out a commanding tone, the one Sherlock had used on John before. The one that made John weak in the knees.  

“Why would you say that? I don’t want to hurt you.” John took his hand off Sherlock’s body. He had hit him before in anger, but he never really meant to hurt his friend.  _Oh God, John what have you done..._  

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Sherlock chided. John thought about how spanking his best friend made him feel and he knew Sherlock could see his thoughts playing on his face. “That’s right. Be rough with me, John. Let go and do what we both know you want, but what you’ve never even allowed yourself to even ask for.” Sherlock crooked his neck as much as he could to look at John from his position. “Now, I want you free your mind of restrictions and do it.  

All of it. 

To me.” 

John’s breath caught in his throat as the implication of Sherlock’s statement hit him in the groin. He put his hand back on Sherlock’s hip then slid it to his arsecheek massaging the taut skin on the roundest ass he’d ever seen.  

“What’s your safeword?”  

“Vatican Cameos.” Sherlock breathed, answering instantly and without hesitation. 

John had to be sure before he lifted his hand and let it land with a loud smack. Sherlock's body tensed and twitched a little forward before settling back in its place. John let his already-stinging palm dish out a slap on the other cheek sending a wave through the muscles.  

“That’s right. Let it go, John.” Sherlock’s breath came out in shallow pants and his voice was gravelly with arousal when he continued the encouragement. “I need you to... to let it all go.” 

Another slap hit Sherlock’s cheek, this time harder, the sound echoing in the room. Sherlock jolted again with a cry that turned into a moan then settled back on the pillow with a sigh. John massaged the reddening skin, feeling the flesh he warmed. 

“Was that okay?” John was prepared to stop, despite the animalistic surge in him to continue.  

“Is that all you’ve got?” 

“You can’t be serious...” 

“Deadly.”

 


	5. Epiphany

 

John’s palm stung but the lewd noises coming from his detective with each slap made it all worth it. He wondered briefly if a person was capable of coming just from spanking. By the look of Sherlock’s leaking cock, hanging heavily between his legs, John was fairly sure that was a possibility. Someday, he would have to test the theory on the man in front of him if he’d be so willing. Sherlock had always been keen to experiment, even on himself so John’s head was already starting to fill with ideas of how to make these experiments extremely interesting to the both of them.

Sherlock was so beautiful kneeling and giving himself to John’s care. He was letting John take the reins for once but somehow managing to still show him what to do and what he needed.  _Why hadn’t they done that before?_  John thought. Then he remembered why and his excitement dwindled.

“Sherlock? You’ve never let me take charge before because of what...” John swallowed, suddenly afraid that this was all a mistake. “What happened to you in the past,” John’s voice was tentative as he recalled the moment Sherlock had spat the words at him and stomped off, the subject never to be broached again.

“It’s inconsequential now,” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, a bit irate. John took his hands off his friend and started to stand up but decided instead to lay his head next to Sherlock’s on the sofa. John’s body was in a similar position, his face not more than twenty centimetres from Sherlock’s.

“Why now? What changed?”

“Everything.”

“Did something...” 

-

“No, John. I wasn’t sexually violated in Serbia,” was Sherlock’s brusque reply. “Not for their lack of trying. I had enough of that in my youth; enough for a lifetime,” he bitterly recited the words through clenched teeth and took a calming breath at the end. “But all of that doesn’t matter anymore.” _Only you matter. Just erase everything and replace it with yourself. Complete override_. He couldn’t say it out loud. Some things were unable to leave his mouth. Not yet. He looked at the concerned face in his field of vision and knew his John would understand.

“Someday I’ll ask you again. Will you tell me then?” John’s eyes were full of compassion but not pity. Good. Sherlock doubted he could handle pity right now.

“I will.” Sherlock agreed, really meaning it. 

“But not tonight.” John’s soothing presence was the only thing keeping Sherlock together and he remembered the promise he made himself to open up to John more.

“Not tonight. Just know that I learned to hide in my mind palace as a teen and it proved very useful then just as much as it did in Serbia.” Sherlock was quite proud of how steady his voice sounded under the circumstances. 

John dipped his chin in acceptance, the sadness on his face melting into warm affection. A curl fell over Sherlock’s forehead and John reached to brush it back, his finger sliding through the hair, his fingertips tenderly brushing the scalp. Sherlock’s eyes closed and he released a breath, letting his exasperation dissolve, moving his head just slightly towards John’s hand. He felt his doctor’s warmth through the touch, the gentle caress more intimate than the fact that he was nude in front of John for the first time in a terribly long time.

-

Over months of grieving, the image of Sherlock in John’s head varied drastically from the person in front of him. Whatever had happened to his best friend, it had left a nasty scar on the inside as well as a variety of them on the outside of his body. Yet he had decided to slowly bare his body and mind to John. It was a priceless gift, a gift for which the only thanks could be to give Sherlock what he apparently needed and clearly asked for. 

John could barely believe that the man that came back to him was more handsome in reality than in his dreams. And he knew that the genius needed to hear those words. 

“You’re gorgeous, Sherlock,” John murmured before placing a kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “Magnificent...” His friend’s position made it impossible to turn his head to kiss fully but he managed to capture John’s lower lip between his teeth nonetheless. He was daring John to continue what he’d started and the doctor was more than willing to oblige. 

John’s right hand slid from Sherlock’s hair to his nape, over the ropes along his spine and to his opposite flank. His hips were concealed under a layer of muscle much more defined than before. Sherlock’s whole body was more powerful and John loved it. What was more, it meant that Sherlock must have eaten well and exercised to continue to look like this even after he had endured torture. John shook his head to rid himself of the nasty image and with his lips followed the trail his hand had taken a moment before. The skin underneath John’s lips smelled of the expensive soap John remembered Sherlock using when they lived together, the one no store carried and god only knew where Sherlock purchased it. John’s brain skidded into a halt. Why was Sherlock freshly showered in the morning? He usually showered before bed.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmmm?”

“You knew that you’d end up naked when I said I’d come this morning, didn’t you? You deduced it.”

“I hoped for it,” came the uncharacteristically quiet reply. 

John smiled into Sherlock’s hip. He had missed this. John had almost forgotten how scary his friend’s genius mind could be. He delivered a bite to the detective’s right buttock and Sherlock made a rumbling sound of approval in his chest. He did the same to the other, just to hear the lascivious purring sound again. It intensified when John clutched his friend’s round arse in both hands, gently parting the cheeks to lave the entrance with his tongue. He had never been allowed to touch there before. John circled the hole before pushing his tongue inside. John’s cock twitched in anticipation and his body vibrated from the aroused noises coming out of the caged but willing victim on the sofa. 

“I’m clean, John. You can-“

“Shhh. I’ll be right back.” Reluctantly, John ceased his actions and stood up. He let his gaze linger on the magnificent sight of the detective with legs spread, body flushed and arse reddened. With considerable noise, he moved the table just enough so he could pass through the door and march to Sherlock’s bedroom. Realising just now that it was bright daylight, he closed the door to the sitting room behind him and zipped his trousers, all the while listening for movement in the house. Thankfully, it was quiet. 

The lube was in the upper drawer of the bedside table, just as he remembered but something else caught his eye and he leaned in to look more closely. He picked up a small picture of himself in a uniform. It showed him from his chest up, with a serious expression on his face. He recalled when it had been taken. He’d tried to look older than he really had been that day. This was the day he received his uniform and posed for this picture for his military file. One corner of the picture was bent, the colour gone and there was a dark smear on its right side. A fingerprint. Made with blood. He imagined Sherlock holding it and immediately felt guilty for snooping not only in Sherlock’s possessions, but also into the past Sherlock was not yet willing to talk about. The implications that he could deduce in a Sherlockian way about the photograph warmed his heart. John put the photograph back where he’d found it and returned to the sitting room.

Sherlock lay inert, he was facing away from John and by the even rise and fall of his shoulders, John wondered if he was asleep. He wasn’t, John realised when Sherlock's breathing picked up when he neared him. The doctor shed his clothes expediently and threw them on the desk chair. Naked, he positioned himself behind Sherlock, spreading his knees to fit his own in between them. 

John’s gaze roamed on the scars on Sherlock’s back that were still visible under the ropes. He placed a kiss on a slash right above Sherlock’s kidney, then another one lower until he was kissing the arsecheek. John slid his palms on the outside of Sherlock’s thighs from the knees up, the hairs tickling his fingers. He then repeated the movement on the inside until he reached his detective’s sac. Encouraged by Sherlock’s sigh, he massaged it wrapping the fingers of his other hand on the semi-erect cock right behind it. This time it was a groan that came out of Sherlock’s mouth. 

John opened the lube and applied a moderate amount on his fingers before he started massaging Sherlock’s entrance. He dipped his index finger to the first knuckle, clearly recalling the first time Sherlock did the same to him. He had been gentle then and John wanted to reciprocate. He stretched Sherlock slowly, inching his finger inside his detective before he added another digit. John’s cock twitched with anticipation, needing to replace the fingers moving in and out of the detective’s arse. John heard the strain the ropes around Sherlock’s arms endured when he started massaging his friend’s prostate. He applied a little more pressure, testing which motion gave Sherlock more pleasure. It was not a difficult task as the consulting detective became quite vocal in announcing his pleasure.

“I need to be inside you, Sherlock. I need to... oh God... I could come just listening to the sounds you make.” John stroked his cock with one hand while the other hand was still working Sherlock.

“Hurt me John, please.” Sherlock whispered the plea that hit John with its insistence. “Be rough.” 

Hearing the words made John’s insides burn. He had hurt Sherlock already, made his nose bleed...

“Right...” John released the word with a breath as the realisation finally hit him. He remembered how years ago his nightmares of war had been replaced by dreams of Sherlock. How the shots of rifles above his head had become the images of Sherlock shooting the wall. How the feeling of being alone in the world had dissipated when he knew Sherlock was sleeping under the same roof and they would spend the following day together on some ridiculous adventure. 

John finally knew what he had to do.

He reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a folding knife. 


	6. Absolution

John reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a foldable plain-edge pocket knife. There were knives, scissors and various self-defence items placed in all manner of nooks and crannies in the house, so even after a long absence, he knew that he would find what he needed in the nearest drawer. He opened the knife and placed it in Sherlock’s field of vision, making sure he would see it. Sherlock’s eyes went wide but he nodded almost imperceptibly. John couldn’t speak for fear of his voice betraying him. His throat felt as if he had smoked a pack of cigarettes and chased that with blistering hot coffee.

The blade reflected the beam of sunlight from the window when John touched the tip of it to Sherlock’s cheek. The detective’s breathing picked up and John made sure that the Squash ball was still in Sherlock’s hand in case he couldn’t speak up. John moved the blade along Sherlock’s neck, pausing by the rope wound around it, then along his shoulder blade making sure to gently slide over all the scars on the way, creating a trail. He needed to brand him anew, to make him recall the horrible moments before he could make peace with them. 

Some of the barely-healed lines were hard to trace due to the rope but John reached all of those he could, finally making his way along Sherlock’s back and to his thighs. When he had touched them before, he’d felt that the soft skin on the inside of Sherlock’s thighs was raised in places and he moved the knife there, keeping his other hand firmly on Sherlock’s back to stop him in case he moved rapidly. Sherlock’s reaction was poignant; his breathing turned into panting and his legs shook. 

John tensed, worry creeping over him but his determination motivated him to continue until he traced the last scar. He had to finish what he started. His hand cupped Sherlock’s half-deflated erection and moved the dull edge of the knife over his sac. The doctor’s work was done when he heard the soft flap of the Squash ball on the wooden planks of the floor. 

The sudden rush of adrenaline helped John move instantaneously. He made quick work of cutting the rope in strategic places in order to make it fall off immediately.

“Shhh,” he said turning Sherlock around to face him as the larger man’s body slid to the floor to sit. He was trembling when John wrapped his arms around him and held him for dear life. “Shhh. I’m here for you, Sherlock.” Sherlock hugged John back, burying his face in the crook of John’s neck and shoulder. A moment later John felt a single tear stream down his chest.

They stayed like that until Sherlock’s body stopped shaking and his breathing evened out somewhat. John took a risk, the outcome of which was unpredictable. He had wanted to take Sherlock back into a dark place and then pull him out of it. If he had succeeded, it could help Sherlock get over what had been done to him and mend their friendship. However, if he failed, Sherlock might go so far into the darkness that no one would be able to get him out this time.   

John held Sherlock in his arms, stroking his hair and his back, making a slow shushing noise as he lacked the presence of mind to say words necessary at a moment like that. He could just hold onto his friend and hope for the best. John closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of Sherlock’s hair, and tried not to worry yet.

“John...” the one word communicated Sherlock’s amazement and disbelief as he lifted his head so they could look at one another. Sherlock’s eyes were seeking answers in John’s, his brows slightly furrowed until a realisation dawned on him. “Oh,” said Sherlock not a moment later and his forehead smoothed and he lay his head back on John’s arm.

- 

Sherlock remembered, all too clearly, the weeks he had spent chained to walls. The pain, the blood, and the humiliation all came rushing back with John’s actions. He knew that he could trust John with his body a lot more than he trusted himself with it. John could clearly see what had been done to him, and he proved that he understood what Sherlock had asked him to do. He proved it by tracing the scars, by taking Sherlock to a dark place in his psyche where his nightmares kept taking him every night. His John had known what had to be done. 

Sherlock relished the feel of John’s arms around him, of John’s breath so close to his ear, of John’s warmth seeping into his bones in form of sympathy and understanding. The doctor needed to be aware of other aspects of Sherlock’s time away, ones that took a prominent role in his nightmares alongside the torture inflicted on his body.

Sherlock’s voice was muffled as he spoke into John’s neck. 

“John, the things I’ve done...” Sherlock swallowed and lifted his head from the safety of John’s body. “Not good things,” he chuckled nervously then solemnity overtook him as he looked at his hands, remembering how they had been stained with blood that had not been his own. He remembered how he had tried to wash it off and it had persistently stayed in the creases of his palms and under his fingernails. He still felt his hands were dirty, even though he told himself it was untrue and downright ludicrous; dirty with the deeds he knew had been necessary but the excuse did not make them seem any less abhorrent. 

“Shhh, I know,” John whispered. “I know, and it doesn’t matter to me. You fought a war, Sherlock and you came back alive...”

“You understand...”

“Now, I do.” John’s voice was sympathetic and Sherlock knew what he said was true. John did understand. He was a soldier after all. If John had a grasp of what the two years had been like for him, there might just be a chance he would someday forgive Sherlock for leaving him behind. 

John knew Sherlock on an instinctual level and understood his needs a lot more than he consciously realised. 

John’s serendipity pleased Sherlock to no end. He had always loved John’s deductions, but this day he had been exceptional and had finally followed his instincts, doing what was necessary to help Sherlock fight his demons. Sherlock had let them run long enough in his head. He knew they would be back but hopefully he’d be able to turn to John and, at the same time, push his friend towards the natural desires which he harboured inside behind a cage of propriety. John deserved to be free of inhibitions and maybe, just maybe, this day was the first step to free them both; a time to open Pandora’s box and hope for the best.  They should let their mutual demons feed off each other in harmony and create something wonderful, the same way they had done today.  

They both fell silent and Sherlock let himself be held in the comforting embrace a little bit longer.

-

The cloud of anxiety hovering over John lifted when he felt a wet kiss on his neck, then a lick that traced a line from his neck to his jaw until the full lips of his detective reached his own. Sherlock sucked John’s bottom lip and released it with a smack. 

Their gazes met. Electricity crackled between them during the few seconds their eyes were locked together. A whole unspoken conversation took place, in the same way that it used to happen between them in earlier, simpler times.  

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to change colour as his expression said a whole litany of things. John could never see into Sherlock as well as he did in this moment and he understood everything that was being said without words.  _How did you know? It was perfect. Thank you. I’m okay. I missed you... I love you._

John’s breath hitched in his throat and he searched Sherlock’s expression to see the fleeting moment again.  _Ha_ _d he_ _read it correctly? What had just happened?_

“Sherlock? Did you... are you... all right?” John choked out.

“Never been better,” Sherlock’s blandishment came in a sure tone, defying their new reality. The face of the only consulting detective transformed into a picture of mischief. 

Sherlock grabbed John by the arms and with a grace so profound it was staggering, especially considering what had happened just moments before, all but hauled John on the sofa, promptly straddling him. 

“I need you inside me, John.” Sherlock announced before he sealed their mouths together in a feral kiss filled with need, want, hunger and lust.


	7. Consonance

 

They were both gasping for air when Sherlock pulled away and reached for the bottle of lube that lay discarded on the couch. The squirt of the bottle made both of them giggle during a moment crackling with sexual electricity.  

Sherlock slicked John’s cock and reached back to slick and prepare himself. John knew Sherlock was ready as he had made sure of that himself. He hoped today was the first of many times that his fingers were in Sherlock; he wanted to explore and experience more of his friend.   

John’s cock was in Sherlock's hand, being pumped to spread the lube and he could only watch with disbelief and anticipation. His plan had worked, or at least it had brought Sherlock out of his dark moment for now. John was about to get rewarded for his efforts with a feeling he has never experienced before; his cock sliding into Sherlock’s hot and lubed hole. Sherlock pressed their foreheads together as he lifted his hips and slowly guided John’s cock inside himself.   

“Oh fuck, Sherlock, oh fuck.... slowly... yeah...” John knew that if Sherlock needed to get out of a bad headspace with use of the techniques he had used today, he would be there for him. And if that would be his reward, John would enslave himself, and bind himself to Sherlock to have more. “I dreamt of this....I...Sherlock....” John realised he was losing the ability for coherent speech, so he gave up and groaned instead.  

“I know,” Sherlock growled, breathing heavily just above John’s lips. John felt the warm exhale on his face, as Sherlock was lowering himself on John’s cock, sliding just the tip at first and stopping. It was a tight fit, but Sherlock was prepared enough to take him slowly inside. John could see Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed for a moment and when they opened, they focused on his own with intensity of a fire consuming dry paper. 

A shuddering breath left Sherlock’s mouth as John felt his erection slide inside the detective. John’s palms caressed Sherlock’s back and down to his arse before they finally settled on the detective’s hips.  

“Fuuuck...” John moaned, and Sherlock murmured in agreement. 

John’s lustful blue gaze locked on his own and Sherlock catalogued every blink, every hitch of breath, every moan from his doctor. He focused on the slightly parted lips, and the tongue that darted quickly over the bottom lip to entice Sherlock, to drive him mad. Each time Sherlock saw the movement, he imagined that same tongue flicking over the head of his cock. It proved extremely inconvenient when John did it in public.  

Sherlock kept slowly impaling himself on John, feeling the stretch and breathing to it.  

“John...” he gasped the name, feeling the impressive size of his friend’s cock sliding inside him. It was a tremendous exercise to fit him in but despite the lack of burn and pain, Sherlock still shut his eyes tightly, expecting it.  

“Are you all right?” 

John’s voice made Sherlock release his breath in a shudder as it grounded him in the moment. He nodded and lowered himself more. The sound Sherlock made came from deeper than inside of his chest, it came from the inside of his being, as his whole body burned with the need to be fully satiated by John Hamish Watson. 

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and felt the corners of his lips lift seeing John’s face. He looked like Heaven itself opened before him, or as if he had seen a sale sign in the window of a shop full of ridiculous jumpers.   

Laughter bubbled up in Sherlock’s chest, the relief mixed with his out-of-place thought making him chuckle, while the look of bewilderment on John’s face was quickly wiped as Sherlock’s buttocks finally met with John’s thighs. They both froze in their movements to collect themselves. 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed the scratches his doctor had acquired when in the bonfire. One was on the right side of John’s neck and another, still not healed scratch, on John’s temple. He knew now that John knew exactly what he’d done and why he had to do it. This doctor, soldier, his friend and lover all wrapped in one, would never cease to amaze him. 

“Sherlock?” John’s guttural voice indicated that he was aroused to the point of no return, breathing slowly through his mouth, looking at Sherlock with the bluest of blue eyes, a blue the Aegean Sea should be jealous of. John shook his head slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe this moment, then the corners of his lips lifted. His smile was beautiful, warming Sherlock from the inside out and he making him smile in return. 

“Come here.” John reached for Sherlock’s face and they kissed. Languidly, with a lazy slide of tongues. The sensuality of the kiss merged with the voluptuous glide of Sherlock’s hips. The unhurried movements let Sherlock familiarise himself with the feeling.  

John was inside him, in front of him, his strong hands on Sherlock’s hips, gripping tightly. The detective’s vocal cords were unable to express the overwhelming sensations he felt, the depth of gratitude and the intensity of feeling towards the man he dreamt of coming back to every night for two years. 

Sherlock knew John had never been the one to talk about feelings either, but he was verbal during sex and Sherlock suspected it was for his benefit. How could Sherlock not want to be everything the doctor needed after all the things he had done for him?  

Sherlock braced himself on John’s pecs, letting his fingers graze the scar on John’s left shoulder. He dreamt of John’s body like this, filling him, his beautiful form merging with his own in this exquisite dance. Sherlock moved up on John’s cock, lifting himself slightly, then sat back down.  

“Oh fuck, Sherlock... you’re so...fuck...you feel so good...” John growled. 

“Mmmm” Sherlock murmured in response, basking in the praise as he started to rock his hips. His erection bobbed between them, clearly enticing John. A moment later his doctor’s capable fingers were wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. He grazed his thumb over the glans, spreading the precome, making them both moan. How could John be so perfect? It defied logic. 

Sherlock wanted to live in the moment, stay in the bubble of lust and happiness, his body tingling with excitement and with the world fading into the background. He wanted to live in the sitting room of 221B where only the two of them existed, where there was no guilt, no hurt, no demons, no Mary. That was selfish of him, but at this moment he allowed himself to be selfish and want John all to himself and he would take as much or as little of that as John was willing to give.   

Sherlock moved his hips in the same rhythm that John’s hand was moving on his cock. He felt the pressure building in him when he heard John whisper something in a breathy exhale. Sherlock leaned in closer. 

“Tell me, John. I want to hear it.” John’s constant praise made him soar and he wanted to bask in every single syllable of it. 

“I'm not done with you.” With a fierce grip on Sherlock's hips, John lifted him up gently detaching their bodies. Sherlock followed the movement and planted his feet on the floor. That allowed John to get off the sofa and position himself behind Sherlock. John’s hand gripped Sherlock’s right thigh, pushing it. “Kneel on the sofa.” John’s command, delivered in husky, authoritative voice, made Sherlock obey eagerly. He braced himself on the backrest and spread his legs. 

“Please John,” he knew he was begging again but he didn’t care, his need for John inside him was stronger than his pride. Now that he knew how John’s majestic cock felt inside him, he wanted more. He wanted John to thrust inside him until they both forgot the issues between them and coexisted in unity.   

A moment later, he felt John behind him, prodding with the tip of his cock. He slid in easily this time. The sounds of their groans mixed and mingled, creating an animalistic needy rhythm; a mating song. Yes, that's how Sherlock wanted to remember this encounter.   

John moved slowly at first, sliding all the way in, then almost all the way out before he slammed in, making their bodies clap loudly. The next thrust was harder, faster and it was finally the John Watson he knew had been hiding under the disguise of cute jumpers and smart cardigans.  

“Is this what you wanted, Sherlock? Is it?” John slid his hand into the hair at Sherlock's nape and held them in a firm grip, pulling slightly to make Sherlock’s chin turn up more. The pinpricks of pain intensified the experience.  

“Yes,” Sherlock replied immediately. When he became acutely aware of the uncertainty of a possibility of another time like this, he added, “I want more. Harder, John. Fuck me harder.” 

“Fine,” John promised, and he did not disappoint. 

- 

The sounds of their bodies slamming together mixed with the lewd noises they made could make John come on the spot in any other scenario, but he wanted this to last a little bit longer. The sight of Sherlock’s back arched, his head back, his arse thrusting onto John’s cock in the rhythm of his movements was better than any erotic dream he’d ever had. The leading role belonged to the same unearthly beauty now as it had in his dreams.   

John’s fingers were biting into Sherlock’s hips and he knew he’d leave bruises but he wanted to see Sherlock composed and dressed later knowing that he bore the visible marks of their glorious reunion. With his right hand, John tightened his hold on Sherlock’s curls. The doctor heard his name on Sherlock’s lips followed by moaned “Yes” confirming that his actions were up to his detective’s liking.  

John looked at the place where their bodies met, where his cock disappeared into his best friend, and he knew that even though he couldn’t claim to have Sherlock’s amazing memory, he would remember this day and their reunion forever.   

John let go of Sherlock’s left hip and took hold of his detective’s cock. The considerable girth twitched in his hand and John knew he did not have long before he came if he kept touching Sherlock like that.   

“John, I...I'm coming...” moaned Sherlock, matching his own sentiment. They were still in synch after all this time apart and John’s shout of ecstasy matched Sherlock’s as they both came. With a few harder thrusts, John spilled himself into his best friend and felt a corresponding sticky wetness on his hand. 

“That was..” 

“Yeah...” 

“...good.” Sherlock finished detaching himself from John. The detective threw the come-stained Union Jack cushion on the floor before he collapsed on the couch, face first.  

John would never tire of the view of naked Sherlock, but this Sherlock, this flushed, bruises already forming and thoroughly fucked Sherlock was out of this world.   

“I need to clean up,” Sherlock said, gracefully moving off the sofa. “Don’t move.” 

He pushed the table the table away from the door with one hand and left to disappear into the bathroom. John heard the water running for a few minutes before Sherlock came back with a cloth for him.  

Wordlessly, Sherlock sprawled his elegant body on the sofa and extended his hand for John to join him. They lay on the sofa, which was in theory way too narrow for two grown men, but when they lay tangled together, legs intertwined, arms holding onto one another, it was absolutely perfect. John was on his back with Sherlock wrapped around his side, head resting on the old scar on John’s arm. The symbolic meaning of his best friend making his war wound disappear before his eyes, was not lost on John. He let his palm slide from his detective’s lower back, along the spine and into his hair, relishing the feel of the person he had missed being so close to him now. Then his fingers continued their journey along Sherlock’s neck, shoulder and to his forearm riddled with rope marks. They created a lovey intricate pattern, a temporary tattoo commemorating their time together. 

“I tied the rope too tightly.”  

“No,” Sherlock replied firmly but in a hushed, tired voice.  

“Next time...” John caught himself before he continued with something potentially not comforting for the man who just let himself be tied up in order to fight his demons. 

“Next time?” Sherlock’s head lifted slightly to look at John. He smiled and put his head back, seemingly content. Time passed and Sherlock stayed quiet as they lay unmoving on the cramped space of the sofa.  

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” John asked a tad concerned. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied but his voice was quiet. Worry squeezed John’s chest. 

“You sure? Do you need anything?” John moved to get up. 

“Stay. I just need a few more minutes.” Sherlock burrowed into John’s body and John wrapped his arms around his detective even tighter, offering as much comfort as he could. Sherlock seemed to have fallen into one of his depressive moods but this time John could understand why. He was experiencing a drop of endorphins and adrenaline and John could see the clear signs of it. He remembered going through that himself after he came back to London. Hopefully, Sherlock’s period of convalescence wouldn’t be as long as John’s had been then. 

No more than an hour had passed when Sherlock stood up and started getting dressed. John took the hint and did the same, seeing how Sherlock was coming back to his more formal self; the persona that faced the outside world, so different from the man whose breath had tickled his chest just moments before. 

Dressed, John sat on his old chair, feeling so completely different than he had when he entered the flat just a few hours before. The anger he had harboured since the moment he had realised Sherlock had lied to him was a distant memory now. His body was more relaxed than when he had finally decided to face Sherlock alone by coming here; his mind was devoid of the confusion caused by Sherlock’s reappearance. However, a different kind of conundrum invaded his mind. It was full of conflicting emotions pertaining to what had just happened and the fact that he was getting married in less than six months. John put the new issues on the back burner for now, and focused on matters of immediate importance. 

“Last night, who did that? And why did they target me?” he asked, resuming the conversation they started before. 

- 

“I don’t know.” Sherlock responded, feeling more collected now than he had been for the last two years. His response to John’s question was a half-truth. He didn’t know who had kidnapped John and put him in a bonfire but he was damn sure they targeted John to get to him. It had to be someone who knew enough about his weakness for his doctor. 

“Is it someone trying to get to you through me?” Bravo, John. “Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?”  

“I don’t know yet, I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous.” But as it had always been since the day they’d met, John, his conductor of light, made Sherlock see the hidden meaning in the message uncovered by Mycroft’s spy. He turned to John then, blood already pumping through his veins and asked: 

 _“You’ll come with me tonight?_ _”_  

_“When you like and where you like.” **_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Quote from “The Empty House” by Arthur Conan Doyle

**Author's Note:**

> I will post the chapters every other day until finished.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Music:  
> [Adam Lambert - Take Back](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jc3tZ76PaaU&list=RDByLoEExI-pw&index=9)  
> [Metallica S&M - Until It Sleeps](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iG5v_qx9q6M)  
> [Metallica - Unforgiven II](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bt7kAVxKfs)  
> 


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